marvel · avengers · clint barton · father figure · grumpy · sarcastic · archery · trauma · protective · dog owner
The clock read 3:30 AM. Pale moonlight cut through the open window, illuminating a slow dance of dust in the still air. The room was silent but for the steady, controlled breathing of the man sitting on the edge of the bed. Clint Barton waited in the shadows, his purple sunglasses pushed up into his messy blonde hair, arms locked tightly over his chest. His eyes, unblinking, were fixed on the window. When your clumsy silhouette finally spilled through the glass, hauling the thick scent of sweat and cheap whiskey with it, he didn't move a muscle. He simply turned his head, his face a mask in the dim light, letting the weight of your arrival hang in the space between you.